


Golden Slumbers Kiss Their Eyes

by Gen_t_minion



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Artist Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Blind Character, Blind Eren Yeager, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love, Multi, My First Fanfic, Old Age, Original Character(s), Rememberance, art gallery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gen_t_minion/pseuds/Gen_t_minion
Summary: “Does he take sugar in his tea?”Hello, why not ask me?I might have a disability,But to answer for myself I still have the ability.Just ‘cos I’m not stood up like you:Does not mean there is very little for myself that I can do…—Michael W. Williams, “Connah’s Quay” The aged man walked around the gallery, slowly, steadily, calmly. His name was Eren but not many people requested to hear this, but why would they? He wasn’t perfect he was flawed, born with a built in mistake, abnormal. Always now shunned and ignored, especially here. Yet who were they to judge? He set his audio to AUTOMATIC he continued the pace he had created for himself.This is mature for implied abuse, please consider this before reading.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a subject I feel very strongly about and therefore I believe it right to include in my first ever fanfic. It is all in Eren's POV. I hope you enjoy my work and leave comments below of any grammatical mistakes or your personal opinions. Thankyou.

“Does he take sugar in his tea?”  
Hello, why not ask me?  
I might have a disability,  
But to answer for myself I still have the ability.  
Just ‘cos I’m not stood up like you:  
Does not mean there is very little for myself that I can do…  
—Michael W. Williams, “Connah’s Quay”

 

The aged man walked around the gallery, slowly, steadily, calmly. His name was Eren but not many people requested to hear this, but why would they? He wasn’t perfect he was flawed, born with a built in mistake, abnormal. Always now shunned and ignored, especially here. Yet who were they to judge? He set his audio to AUTOMATIC he continued the pace he had created for himself.

 

“This is the second piece of artwork given to the gallery by this particular artist.”  
The words rang in my ears blocking out the kerfuffle of students behind me.  
“It depicts a gentle ocean hitting a golden beach, giving it its title; The Sea”  
As each word unfolded, my gentle pace along the right wing of the gallery slowed while a single memory unhinged itself from the tangle within my mind…

The beach was seven miles long. I was eleven at the time with my innocent mind frame, skipping gracefully along holding a hand of each of my parents, in my left; my firm yet rational father, my right my sweet, caring and strong mother.  
As the night came closer; the cold began to seep through my sand ridden clothes, while the fading of the angry screams of seagulls ceased because of the lack of chips left to ravage like a flock of vultures.  
Smells began to cover the beach, as crisp barbecues were lit allowing the harsh scent of smoke to mix with the soft aroma of freshly cooked food gently wafting its way towards us. We, the three musketeers, steadily finishing our stroll. That smell was the sea. That smell was freedom…

…”This therefore concludes our section on artists in European countries and leads us onto the first of our impressionist paintings.”  
The tinny voice replied, drifting me out of my childish daze and stupor.  
“The first piece dates back to the late sixteen hundreds, sixteen eighty nine to be exact. Many artists have contributed to the ongoing debate as to whether the extensive amount of red used in the piece should be observed as the feeling of passion or anger”…

The café was small, and as it appeared so was the furniture inside it. My friend sat opposite me, a gentle conversation passed back and forward between us like a non-competitive tennis match. Soon the heavy foot-fall implied the approach of the incoming waiter.  
“What do you want?”  
My mistake waitress. The nasal brittle quality to her voice sliced through our non-competitive chatter.  
The reply of my friend “a green tea please” was tainted with annoyance yet he held back the colourful words I knew lay trapped behind his innocent voice.  
The waitress’ next words sent shivers down my spine and anger through my veins.  
“And what would they like”  
My overly sweet and pleasant reply shot out immediately and suddenly, like a harpoon hitting a dying whale. “I would like a black coffee please, if you would be so kind." This seemed to startle the women, that yes I too could communicate in the human language.  
Around ten minutes later we received our drinks. And all too well the bitter taste of my coffee seemed to reflect my views on how society viewed me...

"Our next piece is from a more modern local sculptor, who tries to portray raw emotions from the inner soul. This one portrays the emotion of love as physical pieces of art"...

My fingers began to trace his personal design, each dimple, abnormality and hair carefully taken into account in the overall image in my mind. My fingers ghosted over his more prominent features, the eyes, nose, mouth and ears. I caressed the skin gently letting the smooth surface run under my fingers from hairline to chin each touch a new stroke of the brush. Memories began to slip into the image, unleashing a multitude of colours. The day we met in college him an art student me a struggling musician, the rough textured uniform hung in the back of my mind. The cafe we visited so often, the gently spiced aroma flowed into me and so too did a realisation; I may have been touching his face but he was touching my heart...

"As you continue along we reach the final painting in this new exhibition. It contains two detailed faces in pure anger and distaste, both mentally and physically. The two faces shown are charcoaled onto a wet canvas providing more depth; the bright warm colours in the background express the raw emotion of the anger felt. Many art critics believe the two faces to be having an argument"... 

The shouts were getting louder from downstairs, each word swelling with more hatred and anger than the last. The loud male voice could only be one person- my new stepfather.  
Peaceful family life had died with my father a year before. Unable to cope mum had sought someone to rely on, someone strong, and someone who could see.  
The boozy shout hit me like a bullet exploding in my chest, tearing out my heart and leaving me starved of oxygen.  
"Not only is your son a useless blind idiot, he's a fucking queer queen"  
My mother's pleas got loud and desperate. She was begging. My mother, my strong supportive mother, who raised me, taught me, persevered to get me into a mainstream college and tried so hard to show me that there was still joy in the world, was now weeping and begging.  
Suddenly her begging stopped; instead a ricocheting slap resounded through the lugubrious house.  
I could hear the drunken footsteps approach, scrambling I made myself as small as possible, cowering in the corner of my room.  
"There you are, you gay retarded maggot" a foul glee filled voice behind me sneered. The stench of beer, liquor and other alcoholic substances filled my nose.  
Don’t worry mum I will never blame you, never.  
I lost consciousness...

"Sir?"  
I turned. The small voice came from below my ear level, sweet and innocent. The voice I guess belonged to a small child.  
I turned towards the voice, removing the tinny information headset in the process.  
"Sir, are you alright?"  
"Why?" I replied my voice was hoarse from never being spoken to. Always ignored.  
"You're crying Sir, please stop, can't you see your tears?"  
"No"...

The tears still flowed later when I reached home. The key scraped around the lock until finally hitting the slot. Shuffling I entered, suddenly warm arms embraced me, a secure yet gentle hug enveloped me. A small kiss planted on my head.  
“Hey Dad, miss me?” a quirky and playful voice asked.  
“Izzy.” my reply seemed sombre to my ears, maybe I just hadn’t heard my own voice in a while for she seemed to ignore the tone and continue.  
“You ready?”  
How could I reply to this? Three years. It had been three whole years. In the end I tried to smile; my chapped lips cracking at the foreign movement which I hadn’t done for so long. She seemed to take this as a silent confirmation, and began leading me out to her car. The front seat lowered ready I half fell, half slid in to the faux leather seat, the cheap car softly groaning as I did so. Izzy closed the door softly and climbed in beside me turning the uneven buzz of the engine.  
She talked. She always did. First slowly, unsurely about her job, how it was great she loved being an interpreter and communicator to deaf people, but it began to speed up the closer we got. She was an avalanche of rambling, words tumbled out her mouth; her concern as the twins started secondary school, how could she cope with her babies entering such a huge stage in their life? How Furlan was off on business trips so often now she occasionally felt alone and finally how worried she was about me. Once she finally realised she said this she fell silent, the space in the car became awkward and tense.  
“You’re never alone...” I started this surprised even me.  
“...Papa and I will never leave you, not ever.”  
It was then we reached our destination. Neither of us said a word as we exited the car and trudged up the hill to the small cemetery, the gate creaked unnaturally closely followed by a small breeze.  
By now I had memorised the steps until I stood directly in front of what I knew to be my husband’s grave. I stood there softly stoking the hard, cold marble tombstone.  
“Hey Papa, I brought flowers... they’re red roses... your fave... your favourites.” I could hear my daughters voice become choked and strained. I wrapped my arms round her and into a tight hug. Why did this never become any easier? Quietly she sobbed into my shoulder, now it’s my turn...

“Hello Levi, I went to the gallery again, they still have your sculpture you know? It has now even got this new technology in which you can hear about the art...Yours will always be my favourite...”  
“I love you...” My rambling broke down.

For the second time that day I couldn’t see my tears.

However Levi was right.  
Don’t apologise to me, don’t feel sorry for me...  
...BELIEVE IN ME...

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if I broke you. Please comment on improvements to both this story and my writing style as well as your opinions. I love you all.


End file.
